Yom Kippur Murder (20 page)

“Let her go,” the book man said, “but watch her. See what’s under the couch.”

He released me, and I pulled myself along the floor away from him. His hands were filthy, and he smelled.

“Be careful!” I shouted as he reached under the sofa skirt. “That’s a very valuable book.”

“She’s right,” the book man said.

“Here it is.” The helper picked it up, got up, and handed it to the book man.

The book man’s eyes widened. His whole face changed, softened. He licked his lips. He held the volume as though it were a fragile piece of crystal. His head started nodding.

I stayed on the floor, watching the helper, who was watching me. He was rough and hard-looking with dark, threatening eyes, the kind of guy you don’t want to run into in the proverbial dark alley.

“How much you want for it?” the book man asked.

“Ten thousand dollars,” I said. I had decided on the price earlier. I had no idea whether the book was worth hundreds, thousands, or more.

“I’ll give you a thousand for it. That’s more than it’s worth.”

“My mother needs the money. She’s old and she has a lot of expenses.”

“Eleven hundred.”

Where were the police?
“It’s not enough.”

“You tell me where the big one is, I’ll give you more.”

“The big what?”

“The Herskovitz book. The Guadalaxara.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I bet your mother knows. Herskovitz killed a man for that book.”

I stared at him. “Leave my mother alone.”

That’s when the door opened and two uniformed policemen came in, guns drawn. It took a second look for me to
see that one of them was female and probably several years younger than I.

“Hold it,” the male officer said, and both the book man and his helper stopped dead.

“You all right, ma’am?” the female asked.

“I’m fine.” I rubbed the back of my head where it hurt and pulled myself to my feet, feeling a moment of mild dizziness.

Bettina came through the open door calling, “Chris, Chris, are you all right?”

I steadied myself and she hugged me. I was about to say something when Sergeant Franciotti and the other man who had been with him the morning we found Nathan came into the apartment.

“You’re late,” I said.

“Miss Bennett,” he said, articulating my name carefully. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Burglary in progress, Sarge,” the uniformed policeman said.

“Not exactly,” I said to Franciotti.

The uniformed cops were leading the book man and his helper over to a wall when Bettina said, “Please, not against my wall. I’ll never get the smudges off. Could you do it against the door?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the policeman said, rolling his eyes.

The two suspects leaned against the door while they were patted down. The helper had a gun. Seeing it gave me a chill.

Franciotti looked at the suspects again. “So, Jesus sweetheart, we meet again. Who the hell bailed you out?”

The helper nodded his head at the book man. “He did.”

“Is this—is he Ramirez?” I asked incredulously.

“You got it,” Franciotti said, gloating.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes, Miss Bennett.”

The policewoman started reading the Miranda warnings. I listened, fascinated, as though I had never heard the words before.

“Who’s the other one?” I asked, still trying to make sense out of Ramirez’s presence here.

“The suit?” the policeman said. He looked at something he had in his hand. “Warren Finch.”

“Finch,” I said. The name rang a bell. Finch, Finch,
Finch
. I had seen it somewhere, read it somewhere. “Metropolitan Properties,” I blurted. “He owns the building Nathan Herskovitz was murdered in.”

Franciotti looked at me. “You sure?”

Before I could answer, the book man said, “That’s my brothers. I don’t own real estate.”

“But it gives him access to the building, doesn’t it?” I said, trying to think it through. Then I shook my head. “It still doesn’t work. Ramirez was in jail Wednesday night when Nathan’s apartment was broken into.”

“How’s your little brother, Jesus?” Franciotti said. “Angel still doin’ odd jobs for Metropolitan?”

“I wan’ my lawyer,” Ramirez said. “I din’ kill no one.”

Angel and Jesus, I thought. What had their poor mother been thinking? “If you pick up Angel,” I said to Franciotti, “see if he has a bump on his head.”

Franciotti turned to me. “You want to explain what’s going on here?”

“I think I’d better.”

“Take ’em away,” his partner told the uniforms. Franciotti sat down on the sofa and pulled out his spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. I heard it click into position.

“I could give you a lovely lunch,” Bettina said.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you, ma’am, but we just ate.”

Right, I thought, just what Jack always says. Get yourself a meal before you answer a call. You never know when you’ll get the next one.

I sat down and told him the whole story.

I took a hot bath when I got home. Then I unwrapped the little packages Bettina had sent home with me. I must have eaten two pounds of food before I gave up and washed the dishes.

I wanted to strangle Arnold. He had actually gotten the judge to set bail, and Warren Finch had had the money to get Jesus out. I had the kinds of thoughts that would have sent me to confession a year ago. Now I just thought of them as letting off steam.

Franciotti had taken a lot of time getting my statement. At some point he made a phone call to have Ramirez’s brother, Angel, picked up.

I told Franciotti everything that I thought was pertinent to the murder, including what had happened last night, except my feeble suspicion of Mrs. Paterno. I told him about Nathan and the books.

“How’d you find out all this stuff?” he asked.

“I talked to the people who went to the funeral.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t happy about last night or our little afternoon caper, but I pointed out that I had called him about half a dozen times, leaving very explicit messages, none of which he had answered. He apologized. Anyway, the case was closed.

It was Arnold who called me. He didn’t know I’d been involved in the afternoon’s activities, but he wanted to keep me up-to-date on Ramirez. He listened to my story, scolded me gently—Arnold does know how to be gentle—and said
as far as he was concerned, we still didn’t have Nathan’s killer.

“Come on, Arnold,” I said wearily. “Ramirez was carrying a gun.”

“Everyone in New York carries a gun. Don’t you carry one?”

“No, and you don’t either.”

“But I’m a maverick. Listen, Chrissie, in plain English, Ramirez is a no-good bum. He’s not a hired killer. And Nathan wasn’t killed with a gun, remember? I have evidence that says Ramirez wasn’t in Manhattan, wasn’t anywhere in New York last Friday or Saturday.”

“Are you serious?”

“He was in Puerto Rico visiting his sick mother.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I’ve got a good case.”

“Maybe his brother did it.”

“I can’t vouch for his brother,” Arnold said. “I’m just telling you, the case isn’t closed.”

It was for me. One Ramirez was the same as another. The only connection I could see between Nathan’s book and his murder was that Warren Finch had seen the murder as a chance to move in on the collection. I had told Franciotti to talk to Mr. McCandless at the auction house, just to see whether Finch was one of the interested parties who had called.

I still had many questions about Nathan’s life, but unless they connected to his murder, they constituted prying. They would have to go unanswered.

When the phone rang, I expected Melanie Gross, or maybe Bettina checking up on me, but what I got was a wonderful surprise.

“Chris? This is Angela at St. Stephen’s. I have Joseph on the phone for you.”

My heart leaped up, to paraphrase Wordsworth. Joseph is the General Superior of St. Stephen’s, once called the Mother Superior, but no longer. But more than that, she was my spiritual director for all the years I was at St. Stephen’s, and
my closest friend, although she is at least fifteen years older than I. I had not seen or spoken to her since July, and I cannot describe how happy I was that she was calling. I said a few words to Sister Angela, and then she put me through. “Chris, how are you?”

“Fine, happy. It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

“Well, if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, you can see me in person.”

“I am.”

“I have a meeting at the Chancery in the morning. Can you be at Celia’s apartment about two?”

“Easily. The class I teach is over at eleven-thirty.”

“Good. If I’m not there yet, wait in the lobby. I have the key.”

We spoke for another minute, then hung up. Joseph would listen. Joseph would understand better than anyone else.

When the phone rang next, it was Mark Brownstein asking if I was free on Saturday.

“Mark,” I said, “I’ve been so tied up in this murder that happened on Yom Kippur that I feel all swallowed up.”

“I know you’re never home. I’ve tried you almost every day around lunchtime.”

“I don’t remember the last time I ate lunch at home. I’m afraid this week is out. You know, I still have your prayer book. I’m going to be in the city Saturday afternoon. If I have the time, I’ll leave it with your doorman.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s another year to Yom Kippur.”

“Would you mind if I called you when I come out from under?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

I had a feeling he meant it. I sat down with the paper, but my mind wouldn’t let me concentrate. Could Warren Finch have killed Nathan himself? He was obviously the mysterious caller who was bothering Nathan. Could he have waited for him at his apartment, gone in, and killed him when Nathan refused to turn over the book to him?

I didn’t know. Somehow it didn’t seem likely. A paunchy older man who went to meet two women and brought along
an armed “helper” wasn’t the type to do it himself. And how could he have walked out splattered with blood? Maybe it had been Jesus’s brother. I was too tired to think about it anymore.

I was already asleep when the phone rang at ten o’clock, and I had to drag myself out of that sleep to answer.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

It was Jack, sounding like his old self.

“About what?” I asked cagily.

“Oh, about that tea party you had this afternoon.”

“How could you possibly know about that?”

“I’m just keeping track of Ramirez and company. Sounds like you gave Franciotti quite a statement.”

I laughed. We talked. He kidded me after he told me how dangerous what I’d done was. I liked the way he sounded. Caring.

“How’d it go tonight?” I asked finally.

“It’s OK. I’m sorry about Saturday.”

I felt confused. “Can’t you make it?”

“I mean last Saturday. I shouldn’t talk to real human beings when I feel that way.”

“Everything OK at school?”

“I got it together over the weekend. It was different, and I panicked and shouldn’t have. Something just clicked yesterday.”

I felt as good as if it had happened to me. “I’m glad.”

“We set for Saturday?”

“Yes. I’ll go down to Nathan’s in the afternoon to see Mitchell and his wife, give them a hand if they need it.”

“What’s the apartment number?”

“It’s 5D. Be careful on the stairs. Jack, do you think this man Finch could have killed Nathan?”

“Sounds gutless to me.”

“He is.”

“I’ll see you in Manhattan on Saturday.”

“Goodnight.”

I hope he slept as well as I did.

My poetry class got a little hairy. It was the first poetry class I’ve ever attended that included a shouting match.

“Sentimental!” Carson, one of my big talkers, called over and over as lines were quoted.

“Bullshit,” someone retorted from the other side of the room.

“Is any poetry free of sentimentality?” I asked.

“Sure,” Carson said.

“Read me half a dozen consecutive lines.”

She looked around the room. “ ‘When in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to—’ ”

“That’s not poetry,” Morgan interrupted, “it’s the Constitution.”

“It’s the Declaration of Independence,” I said. “The Constitution starts, ‘We the people of the United States.’ ”

Morgan looked miffed.

“It’s still not poetry.”

“It sounds like poetry,” Carson said.

“Does that make it poetry?” I asked.

They fought about it for a while.

“I think we lost sentimentality,” I reminded them a few minutes later. “Anyone want to define it?”

They eventually decided that “gushy” was the best definition. “Where does love fit in?” I asked. “And death? And pity?”

“I’ve got it,” Carson said. “If it’s about love, it’s sentimental. If it’s about sex, it’s not.”

“You mean if he writes to his coy mistress, that’s poetry,
and if he writes to a woman he worships from, let’s say afar, that’s sentimental trash.”

“Yes,” Carson said as though she had had a revelation. “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

A few clustered around my desk when the class was over, and we continued to talk. They were ten or twelve years younger than I, and some of them probably dated men my age, but they seemed like such children, exciting, delightful children, but children nevertheless. Two of them walked me to the parking lot and lingered a moment at my car. Maybe next week I would have lunch with them. They were my window to the world I had only recently entered.

I got into New York in good time, parked on Broadway near Seventy-ninth Street, and fed a quarter into the meter, breaking open the roll that had saved my life. I hadn’t seen Gallagher since our brief meeting Sunday night, and I wanted to talk to him, even if it meant missing lunch. Celia would probably have left a bite to eat in her apartment for Joseph and me.

Gallagher was home. He came to the door wearing the usual heavy brown sweater and a pair of worn corduroys.

“How’s my giri?” he asked as I came in.

“Pretty good, Ian. Do you have a minute?”

“For you? A minute and then some.”